


Home

by Selena_Guardi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:26:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5077741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selena_Guardi/pseuds/Selena_Guardi





	Home

When he enters the hallway it's like nothing has changed. It's like the two years he was away, away from home were nothing but a bad dream. He traces his fingers along the wallpaper, takes in the familiar scent in the air. When he comes to the landing in front of the living room door he pauses for a moment. Maybe Mycroft was right, maybe he wasn't welcome here anymore but where else could he go, where else would he want to go. He only had one home and it didn't matter how long he went away, he knew he would always come back to it. Letting out one final breath he opens the door and steps inside.  
And there he is, standing at the kitchen sink watching the kettle as if that makes it boil quicker. Really nothing has changed. Still the same blue and white plaid shirt, still the same cardigan, still the striped socks he likes so much. For a moment he just watches him, taking it in. That sight that he tried to bring back to life before his eyes whenever his mission became too hard, whenever his hideouts were too damp and cold and lonely. That sight that kept him going; through everything. But now it seems that his mind has betrayed him all this time, because the image he conjured up in his darkest moments was nothing like the man standing with his back to him, leaning slightly onto the kitchen top. That man was so much more, it made his own memories look like faded pictures, lacking the colours and shine of the original. Nothing compared to actually seeing him, him in person, so close to him, breathing the same air.

For lack of any appropriate words Sherlock simply coughs and John's shoulders tense up for a second before he turns around.

The moment he recognises Sherlock a myriad of emotions washes over John's face. It changes so quickly that even Sherlock has trouble keeping up. There is the surprise, the confusion so clearly visible in his raised eyebrows, the second of realisation, maybe even relief that vanishes in an instant to make room for a frown, a frown filled with disappointment and anger and sorrow and then there is something new, a deeper sadness that shines from his eyes just long enough that Sherlock can see it before John closes them and shakes his head.  
There's a moment when neither of them says anything, where the kitchen is completely silent except for John's heavy breathes as he tries to come to terms with what is actually happening. He is shaking, trembling with emotion and Sherlock has to fight hard to not just reach out and- he doesn't even know what he would he do, what he should do. When John finally looks up there is still hurt in his eyes.

"Two years."

Sherlock nods.

"Two years."

The tears glisten in his eyes, only seconds from spilling over.

"Two bloody years," John says a third time and leaps forward.

But Sherlock doesn't defend himself he doesn't step out of the line. He just braces himself for the blow, for that punch in the face he definitely deserves, closing his eyes before John's fist connects with his chin. But there is no punch, no knuckles on his bones, instead he feels John's arms encircling him, pulling him towards his body. He is holding him so tightly that it gets hard to breathe. But Sherlock couldn't care less and after the first surprise he returns the hug. He holds John and John holds him and suddenly everything seems alright.

"I hate you," John murmurs into the fabric of Sherlock's coat.

"I understand," Sherlock replies with a smile on his face.

When they finally losen their grip on each other it is a slow process. Neither being willing to let go of the other quite yet. After all it still seems like a dream, them standing there, in the kitchen, alive, breathing, and so close.  
Sherlock's arms still rest around John's waist when their eyes meet. John reaches up and feels the fabric of Sherlock's coat collar.

"That stupid coat collar," he whispers, "Always turned up-"

"-to make me look mysterious," Sherlock finishes John's sentence, a mischievous grin playing around his lips.

In response John just glowers at him. But the frown fades quickly and is replaced by a warm smile.

"John, I'm -"

"Don't."

"I have to say it."

There is a moment of silence, then John nods.

"I'm sorry. I can't imagine what I have put you through. I.... I am sorry."

Sherlock swallows hard. There are no explanations or words that could make John's pain of the last two years go away. So he doesn't even try. This is all he can offer: an apology.  
And so he stands there hands now losely hanging by his side, a bit defeated, a bit lost, worried that his best friend, the best man he has ever known and will ever know might still reject him, might not be able to forgive him. And for once he doesn't hide it. For once he lets his emotions show, just for once he lets John Watson see how much is actually going on behind this cold facade, the mask that he usually puts on. Right here in this moment he has nothing left to hide and he doesn't want to.

And suddenly John pulls him down again. Suddenly John's hands are at the back of his neck, burrowing into his hair. And there are his lips, John Watson's lips on his. Eager and greedy and so warm.  
It takes Sherlock a second to react, to realise what is happening. For a second he is frozen, in shock, unable to compute. The next moment it all comes rushing in, a wave of emotion and sensation he never knew he could experience. And he pulls John closer, a firm grip on his waist as if one millimetre of space between them would be killing him. Maybe it would.  
The kiss is like a heatwave, an electrical shock that travels through his body, making him feel more alive than he has in years, maybe he has never felt so alive. And there is this warmth, this unfamiliar warmth that is spreading within him, while John's hands travel across his back, pulling him in even closer.  
Yes he is home. Finally he is where he belongs, and it wouldn't even matter if it was at the other end of the universe or in the dimly lit kitchen of 221B. Everything around them is only a blur anyway, fading to black and white, while colours dance before his closed eyes. It doesn't matter, time and space have lost all their meaning, nothing seems to matter anymore. Because he is finally home. Home, tightly wrapped in John Watson's arms. And in that moment nothing else is important, no hurt he might have caused, no old mistakes and grievances, nothing matters, because there is this undeniable warmth inside him that drowns out all the rest. This highest of highs he will ever be on.

And it doesn't even matter that it's all a lie. It doesn't matter that the high is coming from the needle now forgotten and discarded on the floor beside him. And it doesn't matter that John isn't there, it doesn't matter that it's all in his head. None of that matters anymore, because he never planned to come down from this high. This was always a one-way trip, no return ticket required. Because one thing Sherlock knew when he settled down in John's old chair, his head resting so close to the blood stain that hadn't even started to fade yet, this place wasn't his home anymore.  
Maybe that had been John's thought when he had put the gun to his head only three weeks ago in the same spot. Somehow that had seemed comforting in an odd way as Sherlock had held up the needle to the light. Yes, this was going to be his last trip. He was going home, because without John Watson there was no home.


End file.
